


Bump in the Night

by dytabytes



Category: Marvel, Nextwave (Comic)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-09
Updated: 2010-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dytabytes/pseuds/dytabytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hesitantly, your head comes up and you peer through your fingers to see if the Very Bad Thing has gone away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bump in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/capeandcowl/profile)[**capeandcowl**](http://community.livejournal.com/capeandcowl/) Secret Santa for [](http://expletives.livejournal.com/profile)[**expletives**](http://expletives.livejournal.com/)

You're walking down the streets of The City and it's a big late to be out, but really the sun's still up and the streetlights aren't lit yet and the criminals and bad things don't really come out until the-

Oh.

Oh shit.

The lamplight on the other side of the street just flickered. All down the street, in fact, the sidewalk is filling with yellow circles of dim light and you swear that everything just got significantly darker because you're standing in the middle of one of those little pools and everything outside your circle of light is hazy and completely unidentifiable. The other pedestrians on the street have transformed into grey lumps, drifting along in the shadowy lanes and you really, _really_ don't want to venture outside of your safe little circular haven only... well, it's getting cold out here and you're getting hungry because you haven't had dinner yet and _drat_. Dinner's in the oven. Which is on.

You make it almost four blocks before the feeling of eyes on the back of your neck makes you break out in a cold sweat. Picking up the pace doesn't really help much, but it'll get you home faster and focussing on the icy ground ahead means that you won't give in to the temptation to look back.

"Get _down_!"

Your eyes widen and you instinctively duck, curling into a tight ball even as something roars loudly and whooshes through the air above you.

A random thought hits your brain, something like _"Gosh, I hope I didn't just crush the milk because I wanted to make some tea and that's no good without milk."_ or _"Shit, I didn't feed my fish this morning!_" but it gets blown out of your head as two booming explosions crack over your head and the flap of cloth in the wind thunders in your ears and someone's screaming and you only realize that it's _you_ when you have to breathe and the wails quiet into gasping hyperventilation.

You stay huddled up in a ball for what seems like hours, frightened into stillness. Out of the blue, the littlest voice in the back of your head notes that everything's gone silent and maybe you should take a look around. Hesitantly, your head comes up and you peer through your fingers to see if the Very Bad Thing has gone away.

Slowly, so slowly, you start to pull yourself back together, because you're brave like that (_and because the oven's on at home, keep telling yourself that and maybe you'll pick up the will to move again_). Of course, the moment you've stood and brushed the snow off your jeans and made sure that the milk is dented but miraculously not leaking is when something shrieks horribly in the background and you jolt back into "terrified bystander" mindset.

"Well, that should be it."

You blink, still clutching your milk (_oh precious, precious milk_) to your chest and quivering. Your fear-shocked mind hasn't quite processed the approach of the busty red-head in stilettos who's picking her way through the snow towards you.

When it does, the best you can really offer is a weak, twitchy smile and an, "Um... you're sure?"

"Mm, well. Mostly. Gregorial Muckbeasts are tricky little dev-Oop!"

A tendril of mucky, lichen-blue ooze whips out from the alley and grabs your saviour by the ankle, tossing her up into the air. Later, you'll marvel over the fact that while _you_ were trying very, very hard not to piss yourself, the lady herself merely looked mildly annoyed.

"Here now, that's enough of that, you icky, slimy monster of a muckbeast, you!"

When she disappears from view, there's more screaming, but most of it is in the form of the most air-blisteringly cruel cursing that you've ever had the misfortune to hear. You make a mental note never to piss this strange woman off and then there is a particularly loud "bloody _die_ already!" followed by several blasts of shotgun fire.

Something starts dribbling out of the alley and along the ground to ooze down the curb and into the gutter. It has about the same consistency and smell as rotten blue cheese and when it drips it makes somewhat disturbing gloopy noises. You don't really mind that, though, as you rush forward to see what's happened to the Very Nice Lady who just saved you from a muckbeast.

"Are you alright?"

She wipes a particularly slimy strand of most-definitely-not-cheese off of her shoulder, then finally deigns to look up at you. When she grins wolfishly, you start to wonder if you might have preferred to wrestle with the muckbeast.

"My dear, I've got a pair of shotguns and a _shovel_. Of _course_ I'm alright." The lady casts a thoughtful glance at the indistinct mound of cheesy disgusting mess behind her and adds, "Although I probably won't be if I stay here too long. To be perfectly honest, that shite... smells like shite. Cheese was always too _French_ for me. Give me a nice cuppa any time of day over curdled cow excretions, honestly."

She shrugs and twirls her shotgun idly around her wrist before unloading it and clipping it back into place on her back with one smooth, practiced motion.

"Now, I'm sorry to run, love, but I really must get going. Take care not to get accosted by beasts again. If I have to come back and save you, I shall be very cross."

Halfway through your nod, she's already dashing off, eyes narrowed and ponytail flapping in the wind, and you... well. You're left alone in the street with a block and a half left between you and your apartment.

Really, you should hurry home. Your milk needs to be put in the fridge and you're absolutely sure you left the oven on and, on top of that, you need to wipe this cheesy crap off the soles of your boots. But for some reason, you pause, take a moment to look off behind you and heave a wistful sigh. It just feels like something you should do.


End file.
